Bolan knew a helicopter when he saw one, even when he couldn’t make out any details of its size or shape. Out here, airborne patrols meant army or air force, and the choppers would be Russian, either the Mil Mi-24 Hind, or its little brother, the Mil Mi-2 Hoplite. Both carried 57 mm rockets and 23 mm cannons, and the Hind also had a heavy machine gun in its chin turret.
Either way, bad news for targets on the ground.
“They see us,” Azmeh said, whispering as if the soldiers in the helicopter could hear them, too.
And he was right. Bolan saw the searchlight sweeping toward them. The Niva’s headlights had been off, but infrared technology onboard would have easily picked up the vehicle, drawing the helicopter to them like a porch lamp draws insects.
“Can you reach the RPG behind me?” he asked Azmeh.
“Yes.”
“Bring it up front, then. And hang on,” he cautioned. “This is where the ride gets bumpy.”
By the time Azmeh had pulled the rocket launcher forward, their airborne pursuer had cut the distance between them in half.
“Bail out on my signal,” he told Azmeh. “Don’t stay near the car if you can help it.”
If the Arab answered, Bolan didn’t catch it. He was focused on the spotlight racing toward them, ticking off split seconds in his head before he made his move.
8
Washington, DC
Hal Brognola was eating lunch at his desk when the White House line demanded his attention, the red light winking on his telephone’s base unit. Six lines coming in, and this one always made his stomach churn.
Brognola set his sandwich down and lifted the receiver to his ear. “Brognola.”
“Hal, Vic Tomlinson.”
Officially, Deputy Assistant to the President and Principal Deputy Counsel to the President, a two-headed title that let him maul subordinates with two sarcastic mouths.
“What can I do for you?”
“We were hoping for an update on this thing in Syria. Some good news, preferably.”
“You’ll hear as soon as I do.”
“Hal, we have a couple of old men up on the Hill who think it’s time for SEALs to take their shot.”
“Not something I’d suggest.”
“No, of course not. But we need results, Hal. Positive results. I’m not clear on the reason why we’re handling this through Justice in the first place—”
And you never will be, Brognola thought.
“—but unless we see some action soon, I’ll have to recommend another avenue. I know that stings, but it’s a fact of life.”
“I’m used to stings, Vic. At this point, redundant efforts would be self-defeating.”
“Meaning what?”
“Exactly what I said.”
“It might help if I knew what you were doing, Hal.”
“I’m sure your boss has told you everything he feels you need to know.”
He could feel Tomlinson simmering, pictured his sour face behind the grand desk in his West Wing office.
“Hal, in case there’s any doubt about who calls the shots here—”
“None at all. I’m entirely clear on that.”
It certainly wasn’t Tomlinson.
Only the President was fully briefed on Stony Man, its background and its mission. His subordinates occasionally got an order—“Talk to Hal Brognola, see what he says”—and the world moved on without them micromanaging events. Some liked it that way, others didn’t. Vic Tomlinson was a man with an inflated sense of self-importance who could make life miserable in the short term until someone yanked his leash.
Tomlinson got the message. That he didn’t like it was a given, but the worst that he could do was bluster.
“Hal, I have to tell you, this is on a ticking clock.”
“Yes, I understand the urgency.”
“Jobs may depend on it.”
“And lives,” Brognola added.
“Right. Of course, that has to be our first consideration.”
“Always has and always will be.”
“I hope so. And I hope that I’ll be hearing from you soon.”
“A hope I share, Mr. Tomlinson.”
The line went dead, with no goodbye.
* * *
Deir ez-Zor Governorate, Syria
BOLAN LEAPED FROM the Niva as soon as he switched off its motor, carrying the RPG-7. The SUV’s dome lights were out, maybe something its late former owners had rigged for convenience, and he left the driver’s door wide open. Behind him, he heard Sabah Azmeh jump out and make a run for it, as instructed.
Not that it would help, if the advancing chopper’s searchlight fell on either one of them.
The Hind and Hoplite helicopters varied in more than size, weight and armament, but neither one would shrug off a direct hit from one of Bolan’s 93 mm rocket-propelled HEAT warheads.
Bottom line: Bolan could bring down either model—if he hit it.
Bolan would have to do it right the first time out. He hadn’t grabbed a second rocket from the Niva’s backseat, and he likely wouldn’t have time to reload the launcher anyway, if his first warhead missed its mark.
The searchlight found his ride, swept to the pilot’s right, and froze on Bolan.
He recognized the stutter of a heavy machine gun and saw its muzzle-flashes winking at him from the helicopter’s chin. That meant he had a Hind to deal with and would have to make a clean hit with his HEAT round when he let it fly.
First, though, Bolan had to dodge the storm of bullets streaming toward him. He hit the ground and rolled, took a beating on his shoulder from the launcher’s tube, and came up in a crouch, squinting through its sight into the searchlight’s blinding glare.
* * *
“THEY’RE RUNNING FOR IT,” said Captain Duraid Shaladi.
“I see that,” Captain Farid Nasny replied tersely. He was the Hind’s lead pilot and, as such, had perfect eyesight.
“Look, they’re armed!” Shaladi blurted.
“Again, I see them,” Nasny answered. Then, to his chin turret gunner, “Engage targets, Sergeant Atiyeh.”
“Yes, sir!” came the shooter’s voice, tinny and small through his earpiece.
The turret piece was an NSV heavy machine gun, which mangled men and vehicles with equal proficiency, leaving death and ruin in its wake. And if the NSV failed, Captain Nasny still had his twin-barreled GSh-23 autocannon, capable of spewing 23x115 mm rounds at a rate of up to 3,600 per minute. If that failed to finish off his target, he had a pod of four 9M114 Kokon radio-guided antitank missiles on standby for heavier work.
Unfortunately, even with so much firepower on tap, pinning down a single runner—or two men who had separated—could be difficult. The NSV’s rounds were devastating to flesh and bone on impact, but they flew where the gunner aimed them, and if the man in his sights was unpredictable and agile, shredding him could take some time.
And time meant ammunition.
“Reloading, Captain!” Atiyeh advised.
Cursing, Captain Nasny readied his GSh-23 cannon. The weapon fed its rotating barrels from two cylindrical drums, each holding 200 rounds. Given the cannon’s higher rate of fire, both drums could be empty within seconds if Nasny got trigger-happy, but his helmet/sight interface assisted in aiming.
Sadly, it did nothing to slow down his bobbing, weaving human targets.
One of them was firing at the helicopter with an automatic rifle now—pathetic, since its bullets could not penetrate the cockpit, fuselage or rotor blades. The other target worried Nasny, though. He carried what appeared to be a rocket launcher, its bulky warhead telling him it had to be an RPG-7. This was trouble. If the runner knew what he was doing, and Nasny gave him a chance to aim his weapon properly, he could cripple the Hind and send it hurtling to Earth.
Still, there could be no turning back. He had target acquisition, and the enemy had been engaged. To break off contact in the middle of a firefight was unthinkable, humiliating. How could he go home and tell
his colonel they had spotted two guerrillas in the desert and allowed them to escape?
He could fall back and blast their vehicle, but that seemed cowardly when Nasny had the speed, maneuverability and firepower on his side. The contest should be his.
“Look out!” Sharadi shouted, too late, as the RPG’s backflash lit up the ground below.
Nasny watched the rocket sail toward his helicopter on a tail of flame.
* * *
SABAH AZMEH TRIPPED over a stone and fell facedown, skinning his palms on gravel as his momentum carried him another six or seven feet. He’d done his part at the beginning, jumping from the SUV on Cooper’s order, ducking to avoid the searchlight’s sweeping beam, then firing at the helicopter with his AKMS as the aircraft roared above him, blotting out the stars with its insectile bulk.
And then, Allah forgive him, he had tried to run away.
It was impossible, he realized. Fleeing from airborne hunters in this wasteland was futile. He had nowhere to hide, no sane hope of outrunning his assailants.
Falling like a clumsy child had saved him this time, but he was about to die; he was sure of it. The helicopter roared past, spitting rounds from its chin turret, raising foot-tall spurts of dust that drifted over Azmeh’s prostrate form, filling one eye with grit.
As it passed, he struggled to his feet once more and chose a new direction—east instead of south—hoping he might confuse the pilots and machine-gunner just long enough for them to miss him on their next pass. Long enough, perhaps, for Cooper to have a chance with his RPG.
Or was he dead already?
It was possible, and what would Azmeh do then? Spend the last chaotic moments of his life trying to dodge a rain of mangling bullets from the sky.
No, he decided. At the very least, he could stand up and face death like a man, rather than cowering and fleeing like a rodent.
In the other fights with Cooper, Azmeh had been startled by his own sense of exhilaration. There was fear, of course, but he had been elated that, at last, he was doing something. Azmeh could not guess what might result from following the tall American, but after years of watching from the sidelines while his homeland tore itself apart, at least he was engaged. He was participating, fighting for a cause he felt was just.
But this battle was different. The other fights, with men on foot, made sense. Tonight, the killers in the Hind were hunting him, reducing him to the level of a frightened animal. His bullets could not penetrate the aircraft’s armored hide, but he could still distract its crew, perhaps, and sell his life for a purpose, rather than just throwing it away.
Azmeh stopped short and turned back to face the gunship on the last pass it would need to kill him. Another stone slipped underneath his left heel, making him stagger and nearly fall as the machine-gunner unleashed another spray of bullets.
One passed through the narrow space between Azmeh’s left arm and side, scorching his flesh and flaying the skin above his ribs. The impact knocked him aside as if he were a clump of windblown chaff. This time, he landed on his back, huffing the last air from his lungs as he connected with the hardpan.
Still alive, he thought through the scalding pain, and groped around for the carbine he had dropped when he went down.
* * *
CAPTAIN NASNY TRIED to avoid the rocket as it soared to meet him, seeming to be aimed directly at his face. He angled the chopper upward, seeking altitude, accelerating as he climbed, then swung away northward, hopefully letting the rocket pass by him with inches to spare. Knowing the aircraft as he did, Nasny surmised that he could circle once around and spray the earthbound shooter with his autocannon, turning him into shredded meat before the man could reload the RPG.
It almost worked.
Nasny did save himself from a direct hit on the Hind’s cockpit, but there was no time for him to outrun, much less outmaneuver, the warhead hurtling toward his aircraft.
The rocket connected where the fuselage became the helicopter’s tail, a narrowing behind the stubby left-hand wing where fuel lines ran beside critical cables and wiring to keep the bird airborne. All of that was blasted into ruins now, the tail sheared off and falling free, while Nasny tried to compensate with the controls.
No use.
The Hind was going down. The best that he could hope for was a “safe” crash landing, sparing him and his two crewmen any major injury. The ship still had its landing gear, as far as he could tell, but when Nasny attempted to deploy the wheels he set off fresh alarms, competing with the ones already blaring through his headset.
“Fuck!” he raged into his mouthpiece, unaware if anyone could hear him.
Nasny had been trained in belly landings, for emergencies, and this was bound to qualify. The risk involved in coming down that way was ruptured fuel tanks, splashing gasoline around the wounded aircraft’s hot machinery and sparking wires. The Hind might well explode, and if it did, he would be cooked alive with his companions.
But he had no choice. The bird was coming down, with or without Nasny at the controls. It spun above the desert floor, a smoking whirlwind, swiftly losing altitude. He needed both hands for the controls, no time for the radio, but hoped Shaladi might be sending a distress signal.
On impact, Nasny felt as if his spine had shattered. Smoke and dust surrounded him, obscuring the moonlit landscape as he grappled with his safety harness, barking out his crewmen’s names. “Duraid! Ahed!”
Both answered weekly, sounding dazed. Nasny finally got his harness off and turned to wriggle from his seat, struggling toward freedom in the moments left before a spark met fuel and turned the shattered Hind into a blazing pyre. He stepped on someone in the scramble, barely heard the bitter curse, and moved on toward the exit.
When he cleared the hatch, Nasny sucked in a deep lungful of smoke that gagged him and left him retching as he tumbled out. It was his turn to be stepped on now, as someone else dropped from the hatch, soon followed by a third person, who fell across his legs.
All present and accounted for, but still not safe.
“With me!” he croaked, and started crawling farther from the wreckage on all fours.
* * *
ALL THAT REMAINED was the cleanup. The rocket strike had been a combination of skill and luck, and now Bolan had to deal with any survivors who had managed to escape the dying Hind.
The Russian chopper was already burning, flames licking around the section where its tail was torn away. The fuel tanks would explode any moment now.
Bolan walked wide around the wreckage, looking for Sabah Azmeh, and found him coming back toward the Niva, holding his left arm a little apart from his torso. His shirt on that side was darkly stained.
“Are you hit?” Bolan asked him.
“A graze, I believe.”
“We’ll check it as soon as I finish up here.”
“Let me help you.”
“No, thanks. Have a seat in the truck and relax.”
Three men had managed to escape the Hind after it crashed. He found them on the east side of the wreckage, clearly visible by firelight. He might have told their ranks from the insignia they wore, but that was insignificant. Allowing even one to crawl away could be the death of him, Azmeh and the men they’d come to rescue from Syria.
The nearest enemy saw Bolan coming and pushed up to a kneeling posture as he tried to reach a semiauto pistol in a standard pilot’s shoulder holster. Bolan drilled his forehead with a single bullet and the guy flopped over with his legs folded beneath him.
His shot put the remaining airmen on alert. One, crawling away from the wreck and dragging a broken leg behind him, fumbled for a pistol in a rig just like his crewmate’s. The guy had managed to unstrap it and was drawing his weapon when a round from Bolan’s AKMS smashed into his face.
The final member of the chopper’s crew was on his feet, his pistol drawn. Bolan didn’t feel like playing High Noon with the guy, so he cut off the showdown with a double-tap to center mass that pulped his heart and left him dyi
ng on his feet. The pistol tumbled from dead fingers, and the crewman folded like an empty suit of clothes, its hanger snatched away.
Now Bolan had to check on Azmeh and the SUV, make sure that both were fit for travel, and he could resume the desert chase.
9
Damascus International Airport
Brigadier General Firas Mourad had decided not to wait for sunrise, after all. He would surprise Captain Fakhri, arriving early, and they would conduct the court-martial around midnight, which seemed appropriate.
The hour of judgment, when grim deeds were sheltered by darkness.
Mourad was flying in a Mil Mi-8 helicopter, with seating for twenty-four passengers. His party was only one-fourth that size, including himself, his personal aide Major Raed Farzat, three cameramen and Captain Samer Khalil, who fancied himself a film director.
The court-martial was not precisely scripted, but Mourad and Captain Khalil had made notes in advance, considered preparation for reactions from the prisoners, and even sketched the final scene that was the purpose of the whole grim exercise. There was an art to execution, most particularly when a group of six stood up before a firing squad. Mourad was making history, and since he planned to capture it on film, he wanted the result to be historic.
If the world was never given the privilege of viewing his work, so be it. He would file the tapes away until such time as the United Nations or the US State Department voiced concern over their missing “diplomats.” At that time, once they had effectively confessed to their conspiracy against the Syrian Arab Republic, Mourad would unveil proof positive of their illegal actions, including their agents’ confessions of guilt.
Voilà!
The world at large would be amazed, his country’s enemies humiliated in the spotlight of aggrieved public opinion. Following the years of meddling, sanctions and killer drone attacks, Syria would be cast in sympathetic light for once.
The helicopter lifted off at 9:15 p.m. Even flying at a modest one hundred sixty miles per hour, he expected to reach Captain Fakhri’s desert camp by 10:45, plenty of time to set the stage and brief his players on their roles. Mourad expected some resistance from the villains of the piece, which would be only natural, but there were ways of overcoming that initial reticence that left no visible signs of abuse. When the cameras rolled at last, every member of the cast would know his part and would perform on cue.
Syrian Rescue Page 8